The Alienist - Caleb Carr [233]
“Good morning, Doctor,” he said, in about the only tone of voice that I could’ve stood to have heard at just that instant. “Mr. Moore,” he went on, as we came inside. “I hope you will make yourselves entirely comfortable, gentlemen. If there is anything at all I can do…”
“Thank you, Charles,” Kreizler answered.
I touched the man’s elbow and managed to whisper, “Thanks, Charlie,” before we entered the dining room.
With unfailing psychological insight, Kreizler had selected for our breakfast the only place in New York where I might have been able to either collect myself or eat anything at all. Alone in the silent main dining room at Del’s, with the light that came through the windows soft enough to allow my shattered nerves to begin to heal, I actually managed to consume several bites of cucumber fillets, Creole eggs, and broiled squab. But even more important, I found that I was able to talk.
“Do you know,” I murmured, soon after we’d sat down, “that I was actually thinking—was it yesterday?—that I could still feel sympathy for the man, despite all he’d done. Because of the context of his life. I thought that I finally knew him.”
Kreizler shook his head. “You can’t, John. Not that well. You can come close, perhaps, close enough to anticipate him but in the end neither you nor I nor anyone else will be able to see just what he sees when he looks at those children, or feel precisely the emotion that makes him take up the knife. The only way to learn of such things would be…” Kreizler turned to the window with a faraway look. “Would be to ask him.”
I nodded weakly. “We found his flat.”
“Sara told me,” Laszlo said, shaking himself a bit. “You’ve done brilliantly, John. All of you.”
I scoffed at that. “Brilliantly…Marcus doesn’t think Beecham will come back to the place. And I’ve got to say that I agree now. The bloodthirsty bastard’s been a step ahead of us all the way.”
Kreizler shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Did Sara tell you about the map?”
“Yes,” Laszlo said, as a waiter brought us two glasses of fresh tomato juice. “And Marcus has identified it—it’s a chart of the city’s water supply system. Apparently the entire network’s been refurbished over the last ten years. Beecham probably stole the map from the Public Records Office.”
I had a sip of juice. “The water supply system? What the hell does that point to?”
“Sara and Marcus have ideas,” Kreizler answered, taking some sautéed potatoes with artichoke hearts and truffles from a small platter. “I’m sure they’ll tell you.”
I looked right into those black eyes. “Then you’re not coming back?”
Kreizler glanced away quickly, evasively. “It isn’t possible, John. Not yet.” He tried to brighten as the Creole eggs arrived. “You’ve set your plan for Sunday—the Feast of the Baptist.”
“Yes.”
“It will be an important night for him.”
“I suppose.”
“The fact that he’s left his—his trophies behind indicates a crisis of some sort. By the way, the heart in the box? His mother’s, I suspect.” I only shrugged. “You realize, of course,” Laszlo went on, “that Sunday is the night of the benefit for Abbey and Grau at the Metropolitan?”
My jaw fell open and my eyes strained in disbelief. “What?”
“The benefit,” Kreizler said, almost cheerfully. “The bankruptcy has destroyed Abbey’s health, poor fellow. For that if for no other reason we must attend.”
“We?” I squeaked. “Kreizler, we’re going to be hunting a murderer, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, yes,” Laszlo answered, “but later. Beecham hasn’t struck before midnight thus far. There’s no reason to think he will on Sunday. So why not make the wait as pleasant as possible, and help Abbey and Grau at the same time?”
I dropped my fork. “I know—I’m losing my mind. You’re not actually saying any of this, you can’t be—”
“Maurel will be singing Giovanni,” Kreizler said enticingly, shoving some squab and eggs into his face. “Edouard de Reszke will be Leporello, and I hardly dare tell you who’s scheduled for Zerlina…”
I huffed once indignantly, but then asked, “Frances Saville?”
“She of the legs,” Kreizler answered